The Written Word
by Howlingmojo
Summary: Frollo and Esmeralda draw the line. And then some more.


**The Written Word**

Claude Frollo does not know what possesses him to share his inner sanctum, his holiest of holiest with her. They've been living in an uneasy truce for the past months, after his ultimatum and finally her decision to be his. But what should be his crowning victory over these heretic gypsies that have tormented him so, has turned into a covert game of cloak and dagger.

Frollo decides, against his better nature, that the slow path is the path he will have to take with Esmeralda. If he wants to gain her heart, and not only her body, he will have to take slow, measured steps. Which is fine by him. One does not survive so long in the political and religious quagmire that is Paris without learning a thing or two about patience.

And thus it is, on a pale and overcast mid March morning, he takes her by her hand and leads her past winding corridors and vaulted hallways. To pause at what to casual onlookers would look nothing more like plain wainscoting. His spidery hand touches the wall, fingers searching for an invisible lever, or hidden button. A small sound of creaking wood against stone flooring is heard, and a partition of the wall slides open to reveal a dark corridor and a surprisingly clean and oft used staircase.

"After you", he signals, smile on his thin lips. Esmeralda gives him an inscrutable look, but used as she is to his usual tight-lipped nature, sighs and begins to ascend the stairs. Frollo follows, his mind on what awaits them at the end of their climb.

Suddenly the staircase gives way to a study, nay a library with high ceilings. One corner of the room is taken up by a huge desk, nearly completely overtaken by scrolls upon scrolls written in his familiar scrawl. Looping letters and lines. Wooden bookcases filled with what seems like thousands of tomes lean against the remaining walls. A fire crackles in the fireplace. Frollo smiles to himself. It pays to have servants read your mind sometimes. His loyal serfs know where he likes to spend his time best.

He tries to look at his sanctum through her eyes, and is immediately besotted again with this vault of archaic knowledge, this treasure trove of untapped potential. Books whispering enchanting tales of creating gold and other riches in his receptive ears. Soft murmurs of distilling immortality flirt with his pious, God-fearing ears. Yet he is unable to resist the lure of knowledge, the way of the written word. And even though he knows that the gypsy standing beside hardly knows how to read (though he has taken his first steps down that path as well, on her behalf. It would simply not do for the mother of his future children to remain illiterate), he can read her excitement at seeing this chamber in her wide eyes, drinking in the room. It truly is splendid, and he cannot wait to share his wealth of knowledge with her. Ensnare her further.

He remembers days spent in his private chambers, reading to her his favorite books and treaties. How at first she stands in silent protest, with her back rigid, looking out at the streets below, as if to put as much mental space between him and her as possible.

It matters not to him, for he continues patiently, aware of the sultry power that his voice has. Softly he drones on, noticing with stark relief that after a while she relaxes, her ears prick up and she loses herself in the magic that his tale has woven. He continuous ardently, even after the hour grows late and his voice grows huskier. Esmeralda has seated herself at his feet, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes and an inquisitive frown on her brow. Another deliberate step on his part of course, this allowing only one chair in the room. Another move in this slow dance of push and pull he is determined to play with her. And win.

A shake and he finds himself back in the present, as he sees Esmeralda cross his study to admire the many trinkets and oddities he has picked up in his earlier years traveling. She toys with a wooden puzzle consisting of locks that only open after using the right sequence. It was a gift from a scholar he met while traveling through Constantinople. Not much later, the Ottoman sultan Mehmet II invaded and conquered that loveliest of cities. But he was well on his way back to Florence then.

Her hand then travels to the wall and her fingers softly trace an inscription that, he in a fit of desolation has carved into the very stone of the room, so many years ago. To him it is almost as if she caresses him instead, and Frollo has to close his eyes to stifle the onslaught of excitement that courses through his heated veins.

When he opens them again, he finds her perched over his desk, frowning at a manuscript containing strange symbols. They are written by him. The feathered quill rests in its holder and she can spot the vicious red ink nearby.

"What are these?"She inquires.

Frollo moves closer, and glances over her shoulder.

"This is my theorem in Pagan en pre- Christian symbolism", he mutters. "So far I've only been working on the origin of those symbols. I wish to see how much of these ancient symbols have found their way into our modern beliefs".

She nods, still looking at those strange, compelling symbols.

"Did you draw all these yourself?"she then asks. Frollo just nods, not taking his eyes of her fingers, which are softly tracing the symbol "Ankh".

"Could you teach me how to draw these? " she suddenly turns around, excitement and something else flashing in her eyes. And before he can answer in the positive or negative, or berate her for being a presumptuous slip of a girl, she reaches over the desk and grabs his favorite quill.

"Please? "she adds, finally looking him straight in the eye. And in that moment in his mind the seedling of an idea finally takes root.

"Of course", he murmurs. "How could I ever deny you anything?" He is secretly pleased by her sudden flush, a sign that his words are _still_ getting to her.

"But I am not willing to spend all my expensive parchment just to teach you how to doodle" he grits out sharply. "We'll simply have to improvise". He is silent for a moment and then simply states:

"Give me your left hand". Slightly confused, Esmeralda complies. He reaches out and deftly plucks his quill out of her hand.

"Stand still", he says, as he reaches with his other hand and unscrews the cap of his ink bottle. And before Esmeralda can protest or yank back her hand, the nub of his quill softly brushes the back of her hand. Before her eyes she sees an exact copy of the elaborate symbol on the parchment bloom on her skin. And despite herself, Esmeralda is impressed.

"Your penmanship is truly beautiful", she admires."But how am I going to practice what you just did?"

Frollo just dips the quill back in the ink and says:"I'll guide you. Give me your other hand. And just like that, his thin fingers close over hers and they both gasp. "Stand still, and just move your hand with mine." Again the soft scratch of the tip on her skin, now slightly halted by her own movement.

They pause to admire their combined handiwork. "Not bad'" Frollo states, "But you'll need a lot more practice". Slowly his eyes move back up to her face, unspoken challenge in his glowing eyes. And because her hands are now both covered in inky swirls, Esmeralda does the only logic thing.

She reaches for her sleeves and moves them up, exposing the flesh of her underarms. Frollo breathes in harshly. "We need more space", she states simply.

"What would you like me to write?"His voice has become even lower, and for a moment she struggles to hear him over the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears.

"Anything you wish me to learn," Esmeralda states frankly."You choose".

Frollo just bows his head, and with his lips pursed in concentration places the nib once more on her soft skin. What to write? Should he anoint her virgin skin with words of faith and piety? Or should he brand her skin with harsher words of Sin, of lust and Eternal Damnation? And, cursing softly under his breath, for his stalling has dripped some of the ink on her arms, begins to write.

_Agnus dei__  
><em>_Agnus dei__  
><em>_Qui tollis peccata mundi__  
><em>_Agnus dei__  
><em>_Agnus dei__  
><em>_Qui tollis peccata mundi__  
><em>_Dona nobis pacem__  
><em>_Dona nobis pacem__  
><em>_pacem__  
><em>_Dona nobis pacem_

Higher and higher his quill travels, until it reaches the edge of her rolled up sleeve. Frollo shifts his eyes up towards Esmeralda's face and sees her eyes closed in rapture, her chest moving rapidly up and down.

"I need more", he hoarsely whispers. And he wonders when this game has taken a turn for the serious as he sees her acquiescing soundlessly. She shrugs his hands off, only to reach for the fastenings of her elaborate dress. Soundlessly her dress drops to the floor, leaving Esmeralda dressed in nothing more than what the Lord has seen fit to bless her with. Her smooth caramel skin warmed to a dusky color by the light of the flickering flames.

Her eyes boring into his, challenging him to the end, she gracefully sinks to her knees . "This should give us more canvas to work with". And for the first time ever, Esmeralda favors Claude Frollo with a smile so serene, so beautiful, he almost bursts into tears at the sheer intensity of it.

"Lie back", He hears himself croak. He goes down on his knees, knee joints protesting as he bends over her naked form. His fingertips cannot help but softly graze over the hills and valleys of her shoulder and neck, before he recollects himself and reaches for the red ink again.

And now his quill is whispering soft sibilant words against his gypsy's skin. The Greek alphabet is followed by words of devotion, words of purity. His quill worships the lines of her lithe body. Slowly her skin turns into a living, breathing version of the Song of Solomon. And just as he wants to pause to admire his handiwork, he feels her hand tugging on his heavy velvet robe.

"Take them off" she whispers against the shell of his ear. Frollo leans back, searching her eyes. He can't stop his hands shaking as he reaches to touch her red lips.

"If I do that, my sweet Esmeralda, there's no telling where this…game of us will end!" He grits, painfully aware of the blood boiling in his veins, and the excitement between his legs.

" I thought you couldn't deny me anything", she quips, and moves her hair to fan around her. To Frollo in that moment she is the personification of beauty. A fallen Madonna with an inverted halo, hell bent on making him burn.

And he knows the truth in her, and indeed his own lightly spoken words.

His heavy robes are discarded to the floor as more and more of his alabaster skin is revealed. Dressed now in only his underpants, he crouches over her and resumes his painstaking torture. The nib of his quill moves south, scratching lines between the valley of her breasts, before circling her stiffened nipples. She arches into his touch, eyes closed in rapture. Further down he goes, exchanging his words of faith for those of seduction. He weaves spells of rapture over her trembling skin. He etches hot words of promise and passion on her quivering belly, before gliding even further down to run the sharp end of his quill through her soft fur. She moves then, turning flat on her back and slowly opening her legs for him. The smell of her arousal reaches his nostrils and in that moment he feels his erection throb almost painfully, as if wanting to burn a hole in his linen underpants. To distract himself, he turns the quill around in his hand and with the feathery end softly teases her glistening folds apart. Esmeralda moans and arches into his touch. Slowly, almost reverently he lowers his mouth on her folds and bestows her with the hottest kiss. Esmeralda bucks wildly, almost knocking him off her. Discarding the quill for his hands, he grabs her hips and once again buries his head between her thighs. And drinks from her excitement as a thirsty wanderer in the desert would when coming upon a sudden well with fresh water. Although he already knows he can never ever quench his thirst for her. Frollo hears her moans get increasingly louder until finally she arches of the floor a final time, his name a prayer on her lips.

"Frollo… "Esmeralda moans brokenly. "Claude.."

"Yes, my love? "he whispers against her skin, licking a small part of her inner thigh not covered in his elaborate writing.

"Make me yours.." she whispers. Frollo slides his hands down her sweaty body, before landing on his own hips. And hooking his thumbs under the top, edges them deftly off, finally freeing his hard cock. Kicking his pants off, he nestles himself between her open legs. Feeling him nudge her opening, she arches up, allowing him easier access. He reaches between them, placing the head of his cock at her entrance.

And pushes.

As the tip of his erection is engulfed by her welcoming heat his eyes roll back in his head. Somebody groans, and he realizes it is his own voice chords betraying him as he hears her answering mewl. He cannot stop his hips from rocking as he slowly sinks deeper into his gypsy. There is a moment of resistance, but he braces himself, and teeth gnashing, pushes through. He feels her body shiver, and hears her soft cry. He lifts his head up to find her lips, and sinking further , swallows her cries. His beautiful Virgin Gypsy Queen, immaculate no more. Rocking steadily in and out her hot passage, he slowly increases tempo, aware of her fingers clasping his neck, pulling him down, down down….he sets a pace that is older than time itself and wonders why he ever felt justified in denying himself this purest form of Worship. He feels her holding on, as if for dear life, as they both hurtle towards that final precipice, that sweet abyss of oblivion.

For a man so eloquent with the written and spoken word, language simply loses its meaning as the dam of his iron constraint breaks and he rocks up into her for one final time, before spurting his life essence into her tight passage. Holding on to each other for dear life, he comes and he comes until he feels he's as wrung out as an old husk. Knees groaning, he collapses on Esmeralda, his nose in her hair, smelling once again that weirdly evocative scent that is uniquely her. And as he feels her arms tightening around him, he knows that all the powers in the world cannot undo what has just been done. He lowers his head to her beating chest and closes his eyes. Smudges of ink, liquefied again by their mingled sweat soon stain his jaw and hair coppery red, but he does not care. He feels Esmeralda shiver, and noting the rising pattern of goose bumps on her arm, reaches wildly for his crumpled robes. He covers their naked flesh. And as he begins to nod off, he can feel her fingers on his brow, smoothing his sweaty, rumpled hair. He feels a kiss pressed into the crown of his head. And on the beat of both their heartbeats they slowly lull each other to sleep.

The End


End file.
